Winning the Euromillions might not be the best thing for you

AS SOON As I’d bought the ticket, I knew it was pointless.

The money disappeared into the cash register. I might as well have burnt it and used the ashes to draw abusive graffiti about myself on a wall. At least there’d be something tangible. ‘They’ say that the chances of winning the Euromillions draw are about as high as being struck by lightning while sitting on a unicorn and listening to a rush-hour AA Roadwatch broadcast that doesn’t mention Lough Atalia.

I don’t know why I entered it — maybe I thought we’d be able to handle €160million. That it wouldn’t change us — but I have my doubts.

I look at our baby daughter. She’s a fairly reasonably chid. Imagine what a silver spoon would do to her mouth. From aged three to ten she would be like Veruca Salt in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and from the age of 15, hosting Miaow-Miaow and horse-tranquiliser parties in her own wing of the house, inviting all the local gangland wannabees who’d leave mud on the white sofas. I know white’s a terrible colour for a sofa but it was/would have been/will be my wife’s idea … See how already the money is causing blame games? I imagine I would become a distant vague bumbling figure, just content to tinker with my full-sized replica steam train out in the back estate. Every so often I’d have to face some sleeveen and wistfully write a cheque to keep our now completely dysfunctional family out of the tabloids.

Unless I kept the win a complete secret — but that would be hard. You’d have to spend some of it. People would notice a certain hollowness when you’d express sympathy with money troubles. Or how come you only bought hand-tied sausages and eggs that were not only organic and free-range, but the hens that laid them had university educations.

They’d notice a new car — especially as I’ve written so many articles extolling the virtues of owning a jalopy. I couldn’t sleep at night with a new car — thinking about the first scratch. I’d end up going out at four in the morning and keying it myself.

It would affect my work. I couldn’t very well be writing slices-of-life articles when everyone knew my life was so different to theirs. As soon as I’d write about mouth ulcers or catching my belt-hook in a door handle and spilling tea on the carpet, the Examiner would be flooded with abusive messages saying “Well why doesn’t he donate to Mouth Ulcer Research?” or “With the money he has, he could carpet the ceiling.”

Obviously I’d intend to give loads of it away but then I’d be haunted by the prospect of them wasting it. I’d have to be watching them — hovering, pointing at the new curtains saying “I hope you didn’t fritter my money on such luxuries”.

It doesn’t take long for the prospect of unlimited wealth to turn me into some sort of Gollum — hiding my preciousss from grasping hands — writing letters to the newspapers about “how DARE the government consider a wealth tax — taking away the hard-earned winning of wealth creators like me”.

No, I’ve given it some thought and I think the perfect amount would be one million. Enough to ensure a bit of security without completely removing the initiative to do anything. And I’d get a 2008 car with air conditioning and a sort of humpy middle with big window sills for resting my arms on when on the M8.

You know splash out a little but don’t go mad. A million is only the amount a Taoiseach would earn between elections or how much an IFA general secretary would earn by next Friday week.

So that’s settled. I’m going to stay away from Euromillions in future — for fear I’d win.